Imagine stepping into a room, vast like the concourse of a major, yet mythical, railway terminal, which is full of papers swirling and falling, flying and drifting – as if bewitched by an invisible wind. Imagine the sunlight streaming in through windows so high that they seem like dreams.
What would you do? Shut the door I guess, just in case it was oneself that had caused the draught and set a thousand carefully stacked papers randomly cascading. Either that, or grab a handful and with the blessing of the Head Archivist -whose job it is to tame the Turbulent Chambers as they are now known – set off on a long ramble homewards as the autumn infiltrates. And as I ramble along I’ll read a few of these tumbling missives that come from An Archive Past.Oh, and stick some photos of a recent walk in London town.This is what is happening at the moment here on Bitsnbobs, and which has been previously explained here.
What? Oh, yes, well, I was thinking about
September.
Beautiful isn’t it? Open road, fresh air,
rambling along, busy going nowhere?
We’re going home.
Yes, but look at that horizon!
It’s too nostalgic.
TOO nostalgic!! How can anything be TOO
nostalgic - It’s a contradiction in terms!
It’s making me sad.
You’re always sad.
I’m not.
Are!
Not!
Are! Are! Are! No returns.
Grow up!
Grow up yourself!
I don’t want to, I don’t want to grow up
and I don’t want to go home!
Why not? It’s brilliant! There’s toast and
jam and armchairs and radio 4….
It will be autumn.
Yes, toast, jam in the armchair listening
to radio….
The summer will be over.
So?
Everything will be over.
Pull yourself together - think of the
toast; the armchair; the jam…
I don’t like jam.
Think of the toast, the armchair then.
I don’t want an armchair - I want the
hammock.
Toast?
2 comments:
So nice that you travelled together this year to London. In July or August - I've lost track.
Beautiful horizon -- so nostalgic even for those of us who have only visited.
Where is home? Where the heart is, as they say. The problem is that the heart can be in more than one place.
Maryx
Aye, there lies the rub.
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